The Kellys and the O'Kellys eBook

About twelve o’clock the same night, Lord Kilcullen
and Mat Tierney were playing billiards, and were just
finishing their last game: the bed-candles were
lighted ready for them, and Tierney was on the point
of making the final hazard.

“Didn’t you ever hear of Paddy Rea?—­Michael
French of Glare Abbey—­he’s dead now,
but he was alive enough at the time I’m telling
you of, and kept the best house in county Clare—­well,
he was coming down on the Limerick coach, and met
a deuced pleasant, good-looking, talkative sort of
a fellow a-top of it. They dined and got a tumbler
of punch together at Roscrea; and when French got down
at Bird Hill, he told his acquaintance that if he
ever found himself anywhere near Ennis, he’d
be glad to see him at Glare Abbey. He was a hospitable
sort of a fellow, and had got into a kind of way of
saying the same thing to everybody, without meaning
anything except to be civil—­just as I’d
wish a man good morning. Well, French thought
no more about the man, whose name he didn’t
even know; but about a fortnight afterwards, a hack
car from Ennis made its appearance at Glare Abbey,
and the talkative traveller, and a small portmanteau,
had soon found their way into the hail. French
was a good deal annoyed, for he had some fashionables
in the house, but he couldn’t turn the man out;
so he asked his name, and introduced Paddy Rea to
the company. How long do you think he stayed
at Glare Abbey?”

“Heaven only knows!—­Three months.”

“Seventeen years!” said Mat. “They
did everything to turn him out, and couldn’t
do it. It killed old French; and at last his son
pulled the house down, and Paddy Rea went then, because
there wasn’t a roof to cover him. Now I
don’t want to drive your father to pull down
this house, so I’ll go to-morrow.”

“The place is so ugly, that if you could make
him do so, it would be an advantage; but I’m
afraid the plan wouldn’t succeed, so I won’t
press you. But if you go, I shan’t remain
long. If it was to save my life and theirs, I
can’t get up small talk for the rector and his
curate.”

“Well, good night,” said Mat; and the
two turned off towards their bed-rooms.

As they passed from the billiard-room through the
hall, Lord Cashel shuffled out of his room, in his
slippers and dressing-gown.

“Kilcullen,” said he, with a great deal
of unconcerned good humour affected in his tone, “just
give me one moment—­I’ve a word to
say to you. Goodnight, Mr Tierney, goodnight;
I’m sorry to hear we’re to lose you to-morrow.”

Lord Kilcullen shrugged his shoulders, winked at his
friend and then turned round and followed his father.

“It’s only one word, Kilcullen,”
said the father, who was afraid of angering or irritating
his son, now that he thought he was in so fair a way
to obtain the heiress and her fortune. “I’ll
not detain you half a minute;” and then he said
in a whisper, “take my advice, Kilcullen, and
strike when the iron’s hot.”